


Bleeding Lines

by prototyping



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, genfic, kh3-based, kind of, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sooner or later everything and everybody fades. Ventus has come to accept that, but acceptance doesn’t always amount to indifference. Ventus + Vanitas, genfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Lines

“What’s wrong? Finish it.”

Ven was still, silent except for his panting. His Keyblade hung at his side, his grip tired and loose like the rest of him felt. He wanted to collapse in place under the weight of his fatigue, his numerous wounds, the incessant throb of his broken left arm, but he remained standing. The cold rain helped, seeping through the cracks of his shattered armor to drive a stirring chill into his bones. His helmet had been destroyed beyond use, his jaw guard the only piece left more or less intact, and the raindrops stung a bit as they washed over the numerous small cuts on his face.

Opposite him, Vanitas wasn’t so lucky. He was on his knees with masked head bowed, supporting his broken weight with his own Keyblade. His dark attire concealed most of them, but his wounds were many and deep, with the last and deepest of them having reduced him to this position. He was in no condition to rise, let alone continue what had already been a long, brutal fight.

Ven had every right to finish Vanitas off, he knew. There was little difference between now and the last time he’d killed him. And yet…

He looked up the cliffside reaching several stories over them, listening to the thunder of battle that might as well have been a world away. He barely had enough strength to stand; rejoining the effort was no longer a possibility.

His and Vanitas’ roles in that clash were complete. There was no need to keep pushing.

“...No,” he said quietly, turning back to Vanitas. “It’s already over for us.”

Vanitas laughed. It was a wet, rasping sound. “You’re crueler than I thought. Even I wouldn’t let somebody die slow-- _ngh--_ ” He dropped forward on his hands, his weapon falling away beside him, forgotten. The muscles in his back and shoulders were tight, his lean body shuddering with each shallow breath. Ven was certain that the strong smell of blood wasn’t coming from himself, just as he was certain that Vanitas wouldn’t be rising again.

The rain continued to fall upon and around and between them, heedless of the life that was slowly fading from the scene. The agony of something like a slow death wasn’t something that had ever occurred to Ven before. He had been taught to fight for life, his or another’s, no matter what the odds or price -- but if death was inevitable, and those last few moments were nothing but pain…

The mud pulled at him, trying to keep him in place, but he forced himself one step forward, and then another, and then another, his movements tired and stumbling and awkward. He stopped a little beyond arm’s reach of Vanitas, who hadn’t bothered moving or even looking up. Maybe he was waiting for that bit of mercy. Maybe he was too angry to give his (second-time) killer the time of day.

Whatever the case, Ven knew the threat had passed. Heavily, he dropped to his knees in a splatter of mud as he dismissed his Keyblade in a flash. Vanitas’ head twitched up, but barely. Maybe it had something to do with whom they had once been, but Ven thought the air around him felt colder, greyer, as though the atmosphere was fading with him.

With his good hand, Ven reached out and concentrated on what little magical energy he had left, focusing it into a brief Cura. It wasn’t enough to heal his broken arm, let alone reverse a lethal injury, but it would bring a little relief -- and he directed that final spell towards Vanitas.

\--Who instantly tensed and jerked his head up. Despite the mask, Ven was sure he was on the receiving end of a hard glare -- and he was still surprised when Vanitas summoned the energy to backhand his arm aside.

“I’ll take cruelty over your pity,” Vanitas spat. That small effort took a lot out of him, however, and he toppled sideways onto his hip with a low hiss. Ven said nothing, but respected the rejection and let the rest of the spell fade off. At this range he could see the blood staining Vanitas’ chest and sides, a slight scarlet tinge to all the black. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I’m not gonna die with your big, stupid puppy eyes looking like you feel _sorry_ for me.”

“I don’t,” Ven clarified, but slowly, as though trying to figure out his motives himself. The wariness, the distrust, even the hatred was still there, but his aggression had washed off with the rain. He was tired of fighting, tired of death, and that weariness brought with it a new kind of sympathy. “I guess… I just think… nobody should have to die alone.”

_“Heh.”_ Vanitas trembled briefly with the dry sound, his chin dropping towards his chest again. “Everybody dies alone, Ventus. Especially broken pieces like you ‘n me.”

That hung in the humid air for a long moment. Ven probably wasn’t supposed to think on that remark too hard, but he did, and at length he frowned.

Without a word or warning, he reached forward and set his hand on Vanitas’ slick helmet. From there his fingertips had to feel their way along to the back, quickly finding and catching the narrow gap where steel ended and feverishly warm skin began. Vanitas quieted his breathing, but didn’t ask; his body twitched, but he didn’t shove Ven away this time, probably too exhausted to manage it again.

It was difficult with only one hand, but Ven slowly -- carefully -- worked the mask down and finally off. Chips of glass fell away, saying Vanitas had taken some hard blows, after all. Ven tossed the mask aside, but Vanitas still didn’t look up.

“Maybe I am still broken in some ways,” Ven mused. “But I’m not just a piece anymore. I think it’s the same for you.”

Vanitas scoffed, but it sounded more like a cough. “What do you know about me?” He raised his head with a harsh, cutting grin, his thin lips pale. It was the first time Ven had seen him lacking the frame of his mask on his face; he looked a little younger without all that sharp steel lining his features.

Ven considered the question, unblinking under that hateful stare. “...Not a whole lot,” he admitted. “But if you’re part of me, then you’re just as much of a person as I am. Even if you did make the wrong choices.”

“ _Ha._ So, what? You feel bad that you’re killing an actual person? Not just some faceless monster?”

Ven shook his head once, again slowly. “I never thought of you as a monster. Just a jerk.”

That earned a full laugh this time, although it was muted compared to how loud Vanitas usually was. “Think that’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. Pathetic… But it’s a little late for making friends.”

“I know,” said Ven more seriously, solemnly. “It’s not like you’d want to, anyway, is it?”

“Give the guy a prize,” Vanitas muttered, sounding distant. “You know a thing or two, after all.” Unlike Ven, it seemed he wouldn’t let go of his bitterness even now. Dying alone… That didn’t seem like a preference as much as a fact that he was resigned to.

“...You know why I don’t like you,” said Ven. “But why do you hate me so much?” It was a neutral question, asked in nothing more than curiosity. He had a couple guesses as to the answer.

Vanitas exhaled sharply, regarding him with a crooked smile that was a thin mask for his pain. Then those bright eyes closed, and he suddenly pitched backwards.

Ven moved on reflex, catching Vanitas’ wrist and pulling to try and keep him upright -- more than that, to keep him _alive_ a little longer -- but in his fatigue he overcompensated a bit: Vanitas collided with him, and on secondary reflex Ven threw an arm across his back to steady him. He expected a disdainful shove or a struggle, but Vanitas did neither. His chin dropped on Ven’s shoulder, his arms limp at his sides. That lackluster submission had to be a sign of just how little life he had left.

“...This,” said Vanitas.

Ven frowned. “This?”

“ _This_ is why I hate you. You’re so naive and trusting--” He had to pause to take in a shaky, forced breath, but his tone wasn’t lacking in disgust. “It’ll be the death of you, eventually.”

Quietly, Ven snorted. “Is that a warning?”

Vanitas echoed the sound perfectly. “Even if it is, would you change?”

“No.”

“That’s why you’re an idiot. And I hate idiots.”

“Is there anything you don’t hate?” Ven wondered. It was said quietly, partly sarcastic and partly rhetorical. He expected another nasty retort, but Vanitas gave a low, thoughtful chuckle that made both their chests vibrate.

“Funny,” he murmured. “I never really thought about it… not until you asked me.” If he thought of something, however, he didn’t share.

They were silent for a long moment. Ven could feel warm blood on his stomach and thigh, but Vanitas himself was growing colder. Maybe it was just the rain settling on them; maybe it was something else. He knew he should have been more tense and uncomfortable this close to an enemy, but for some reason this easy contact with Vanitas felt… not _right_ , but almost natural, somehow.

“You feel it, don’t you?” said Vanitas suddenly, almost in his ear. Surprised, Ven stiffened, which prompted another growl of a laugh. “Is it that much of a shock? Hate to break it to you -- Ventus,” he grunted, as if seized by fresh pain, “--but you’ve been an open book for a _long_ time.”

“Yeah? Then what am I thinking now?” Ven’s tone held a note of challenge, but it remained low and considerately gentle. While he wouldn’t insult Vanitas with any attempts at emotional coddling, he wasn’t going to be callous, either.

“Not thinking. Feeling. And you feel the same -- as you always have,” Vanitas added bitterly, his voice dropping. “Your light’s too warm.”

Ven wasn’t sure whether Vanitas was being intentionally vague, or if he was confused about the question in what seemed like his increasing delirium. Either way, Ven had just learned more about him in a few sentences than he had since first meeting him. He didn’t press.

“...Yeah, well,” he said after a moment, “you feel pretty cold, anyway. I don’t mind sharing a little of my light.”

A twitch worked through Vanitas’ shoulders, surprisingly strong given his state. For a second Ven thought he was going to pull back, but the moment of sudden strength quickly passed and Vanitas relaxed again. Ven tried to steal a sidelong glimpse at him, but his head was too low.

The mutual silence stretched on, the longest so far. The rain had grown into a thick, noisy curtain, and now Ven couldn’t see much farther than a few yards in all directions. He was thoroughly soaked and cold, but Vanitas still managed to feel colder.

A couple seconds before the quiet would have become worrisome, Vanitas finally spoke up again, barely audible beneath the heavy rainfall.

“If you’re going to keep playing hero… here.”

Ven blinked, but before he could ask he felt something heavy on his legs. He looked down and saw Vanitas’ Keyblade -- when had he grabbed it again? -- and realized that the flat side was being pressed into his lap. “Huh?”

“Don’t get -- the wrong idea,” Vanitas breathed with effort. “I just don’t want to leave it. It’d look like -- I was one of those stupid heroes -- who died here.”

That was a pretty vain reason, but one Ven could respect nonetheless. He nodded, wincing as he gingerly set his broken arm on the weapon. “Okay. I’ll take it.”

“I hope it reminds you -- of every beating I gave you,” Vanitas added, as though determined to erase every last hint of good intentions.

Ven cracked a dry smile. He already had a few scars that would do just that, anyway. “Like I could forget.”

This casual exchange was definitely odd, but the usual alarms that would have been going off in his head at the danger were silent. This was no trick. As much as he’d hated Vanitas before now -- and still did; there was no forgiving his crimes so easily -- Ven could temporarily put that behind him for this. Having put his own life on hold for thirteen years, he was more sensitive to the idea of losing it than he had once been.

He was the last person Vanitas would see, hear, touch, and talk to. No matter what his sins, nothing took away his right to as peaceful an end as possible, if he would accept it. And he didn’t seem to be rejecting the offer.

Ven couldn’t say how, but he felt those last seconds drawing close as though they were his own; he knew there weren’t many beats left in the sluggish pulse in Vanitas’ neck, a faint tap that struggled weakly to keep its rhythm going.

“One thing you got wrong,” said Vanitas hoarsely. “Our part’s… not over yet.”

Ven looked at him, puzzled, although Vanitas couldn’t see it. “What?”

“Tell me something. You going... to show Xehanort… this much pity?”

That was the only time, Ven noted, that he had ever heard Vanitas refer to Xehanort by name rather than “Master.” Behind them in the distance, he heard another earth-shaking crackle of magic.

Closing his eyes, Ven reflected quickly on all that had passed in the last few days alone. All the fighting and bloodshed, all the loss... 

Would he be adding Vanitas to that list now? Or was he just another enemy down?

“...No,” he replied quietly, resolutely.

Vanitas exhaled softly, weakly, but there was some scorn in the sound. “Good.” He must have been drawing on some final reserve of strength for the last few minutes, because it suddenly gave out and he sagged against Ven completely -- but only for a moment. Just as quickly as it had come, it disappeared, and Ven opened his eyes to find himself alone.

A few wisps of fading light drifted on the cold breeze, bobbing under the weight of the rain before dissipating entirely. As soon as they did, Ven felt a sharp, freezing pain in his chest, harsh enough that he doubled over with a cry. His fingertips scratched at his breastplate, trying in vain to grip his throbbing heart as its beating doubled in speed, as if it were attempting to work hard enough for two people rather than one--

After a minute it began to slow again. The pain faded, gradually, and Ven straightened up with a wince. He stared down at his cracked armor, at where the rain had washed him clean of the mud and blood now pooled around his knees. He stared at Vanitas’ Keyblade still draped over his lap. His broken arm gave a sharp twinge, making him inhale quickly -- and then he realized that he wasn’t panting anymore. More than that, he wasn’t short of breath as he had been, and the utter fatigue that had all but cemented him in place wasn’t nearly as heavy as before.

It was as though he’d suddenly gotten half his energy back.

His eyes fell to the Keyblade again.

_Our part’s… not over yet._

The Graveyard shook once more with a blast of power. Ven turned quickly, looking back up the cliffside. To where the others were still fighting.

He turned back to the Keyblade.

_Our part._

He could have smiled if he had the heart for it, but he didn’t. Not yet. Despite losing one of his greatest enemies, it didn’t feel much like a victory.

Instead, Ven took up Void Gear by the hilt -- it was even heavier than it looked, but he could manage -- and forced himself unsteadily to his feet. It took a few seconds, but his body and sense of balance aligned and let him stand straight. His magic reserves had recovered quite a bit, so he gritted his teeth and applied a Curaga to his left arm. It wouldn’t set the bone completely, but the fracture seemed minor and the spell numbed the worst of the pain. Even if he still couldn’t use it, that arm would simply be useless rather than a huge liability.

He wouldn’t be at his best by far, but he could still fight. With the others beside him, especially, he would be okay.

He started to head that way, but then stopped. Balancing Void Gear against his side, he reached up and wrenched the remaining scrap of his busted helmet free. It was a sad loss of defense, especially if Xigbar was still alive, but he would have to deal.

As he resumed his beeline, something glinted in the corner of his eye and Ven stopped again. Vanitas’ mask lie abandoned where he’d tossed it previously, cracked in a couple places but otherwise intact.

He hesitated, uncertain whether the idea should have made him uncomfortable, whether it was disrespectful--

\--and then his heart suddenly skipped an inexplicable beat, forcefully enough that it was almost a physical pang against his ribs. The sound of it pounding in his ears seemed to hold a distinctive pitch, and for an instant it felt like a word.

_Idiot._

No, he abruptly realized, of course Vanitas wouldn’t have cared. Handing over something as close to himself as his Keyblade was surely a sign of permission all around.

Before that doubt could come creeping back, Ven snatched up the helmet and slipped it on. He expected it to be a size too big or too small, but to his surprise it fit perfectly. It was roughly the same weight as his own helmet, so he had no trouble adjusting to the feel of it.

As he took off at a run, he considered how he must have looked -- among other things, other thoughts and questions, but those would wait. Forever, maybe.

_I’m not just a piece anymore_ , he’d told Vanitas. At the time, he meant that figuratively.

He had the feeling it may have been a little more literal now.

~

_“Even after years apart, you pick up with them right where you left off, and even if they die they're never dead in your heart.”_ -Unknown


End file.
